You Can't Fancy Mr Branson!
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: Challenge fic from the Highclere forum. A oneshot in which Mrs Hughes mentally berates herself.
1. Chapter 1

**Pairing: Mrs Hughes/Branson.** **Don't worry, I haven't gone mad: it's a challenge fic! Though if I'm honest, I have been waiting for a change to write something like this!**

For a while it was only thoughts of the war milling around her head, much as it was for everyone else, she supposed. Then a few hours later,- she blamed the tense silence of the servants' hall that left her with nothing else to do but brood- the thought of what she'd said to him came creeping back into her mind. _Be careful, or you'll end up with no job and a broken heart_. And more importantly, what had made her say it. She thought, she would have liked to think, that it had been because it was sheer common sense. The more sentimental interpretation of that was to say it was because she didn't want to see two decent young people getting both hurt and into a lot of trouble.

But, said the voice in her head- that always sounded suspiciously like her sister, who knew her well enough to be able to see right through her- those explanations didn't quite cover it. There was some little thing, some area of her motivations that she was missing, or just downright ignoring. Part of her wanted him to back off Lady Sybil because the fact of the matter was that he was just the type she'd have gone for twenty five years ago. A nice, handsome face; a sense of humour; an attractive accent and quite a dashing figure in his chauffeur's coat.

From where she was sitting, in her chair beside Mr Carson, she was momentarily very grateful for the fact that no one could see what was going on in her head- and if they could they were all too preoccupied to notice- for she feared that if they could they would have fallen clean off their chairs in surprise. She was currently experiencing the very odd sensation of realising that the last thing you thought was utter, undiluted madness. She must be- she made speedy calculation- a good twenty years out of his league, at least! And he had a wonderful smile, especially when he had his driving hat on. Quite the element of rugged charm. She shook her head vigorously, as if doing so might help dispel some of the thoughts lodged in there. It seemed that it was to little avail, it only caused Mr Carson to look at her curiously, as if he was wondering what she was doing.

"Are you alright, Mrs Hughes?" he asked in a low tone, but not low enough, it seemed.

Excellent. Now practically the whole room was looking at her. She felt a prize idiot.

"Fine," she replied, in what sounded to her like far too high a voice, "Perfectly fine. I'm just going to make some tea."

Receiving requests from all corners of the room to bring some tea for them too, she all but scarpered to the kitchen and set about making tea with almost alarming concentration. She shut her eyes tightly, resting against the bench while waiting for the kettle to boil. It was not unusual, she told herself, for people to think ludicrous thoughts when they were as tired as she was. And she was fairly certain that her thoughts qualified as ridiculous. She thought Mrs Patmore might oblige to tip a bucket of cold water over her head; she needed waking up, and quickly!

This was Mr Branson of all people! Mr Branson who drove faster than she thought was sensible; who could make blunt, bordering on insensitive comments at the best of times; who had had the unmitigated temerity to _wink _at her on his first day! The very same Mr Branson that she'd kept her eye on in case he caused trouble among the housemaids. Ha, irony, she thought bitterly, turning to attend to the whistling kettle. Now, she thought, was the time to be stern with herself: you simply can't... fancy, there was no other word for it, Mr Branson!

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	2. Chapter 2

**I cannot deny that I enjoyed writing this chapter immensely. Not all that unusually, this has turned out to be one of those occasions when I say it's going to be a oneshot and then post another chapter the next day. And just to clarify, the title of the last chapter is only meant to refer to Mrs Hughes: I think we've established that quite a few of us can, and do, fancy Mr Branson. T for a tiny bit of language.**

**You Can't Fancy Mrs Hughes!**

"How old do you reckon Mrs Hughes is?" 

Well, for a start he should have known better than to ask Miss O'Brien that. Though that question would have probably earned him quite a funny look from any member of staff, the lady's maid's face was arranged in a state of such disbelief as he hadn't thought it possible for human lineaments to display.

"An 'undred years old, I expect," she replied- he should have also predicted that she'd be unhelpful- stubbing out her cigarette and raising her eyebrows at him, "Why? Who wants to know?"

"No one," he replied hastily, "Just I heard her saying she's "getting too old this job", yesterday," he invented wildly.

Of course, she had said nothing of the sort. The point of being an old battle axe was that she didn't ever say things like that, and by the look on Miss O'Brien's face she didn't believe it for a minute either. But- luckily for him- she got up and moved away; though it was likely to be to go and tell the rest of the staff that he was asking funny questions of a personal nature about Mrs Hughes. He sighed heavily, sitting back in his chair, now left alone in the servants' hall.

Why he was even thinking about Mrs Hughes, and her age, was quite beyond him. As he had been increasingly of late. Recently he had noticed that she was making an effort to keep an eye on him- ever since she'd had words with him about Lady Sybil. That was another thing; why wasn't he thinking about Sybil? Surely he should be thinking about the woman he'd been warned off, as opposed to the one who'd done the warning? The housekeeper was nothing to him; merely someone else, yet another person, who was present in his place of work. But then, why were his thoughts _still _concentrated on her?

He shook his head until he felt mildly disorientated. If his Ma could see him now, or see what he was thinking, she'd wallop him good and proper. Come to think of it, if the housekeeper could see what he was thinking, she'd probably do exactly the same. On the point of age as well, there probably wasn't too much difference between the two women.

His thoughts, looking for some explanation for their oddity, wandered back to his first encounter with the housekeeper. On his first day Mr Carson had walked him around the servants' quarters and introduced him to the rest of the staff. Through the crowd of housemaids- whose attention he was quite pleased to see he captured- emerged a stern-faced lady, a handsome woman, but a stern-faced lady all the same. Perhaps it was the confidence he'd gained from the housemaids' approval of his appearance that induced him to _wink _at her, or maybe it was his undervaluing his life. And, oh the look he got in return! It nearly had him legging it out of the house, down the drive and back onto the train that had brought him there! He could safely admit that in that moment she made him feel as if he were a complete arse. Mr Carson had given him a look of both exasperation and moderate pity.

Ever since then, he realised- though to do so was not really in his character-, he had been trying to get back into her good books: offering her lifts to the village in the motor; holding doors open for her; raising his hat to her if they passed each other in a corridor. And it transpired over the next few weeks that she wasn't a witch; despite Thomas and O'Brien swearing that she was and her having a stare that could almost kill. She had quite a healthy sense of humour really; though he could tell by the way she had her eye on him when he talked to any of the housemaids that flirtation was a rationed commodity. Unless, he thought with an inward smile, it was directed at her; he got the distinct impression that she found hat-raising quite charming! For God's sake man, he thought; what's happening to you? You can't possibly fancy _Mrs Hughes_!

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	3. Chapter 3

**Mr Carson Gets Curious**

"Elsie?" he asked cautiously. They had been left alone in the servants' hall but for some reason he was still embarking on this topic with some apprehension.

"Yes, Charles?"

"Why are you always so stern with Mr Branson? He's a nice enough young man. I'm only curious," he added in response to the rather suspicious look he got.

Unless he was very much mistaken, she bristled a little before answering. That was never a good sign.

"Because he has been known to behave in an uncouth manner," she replied with quite a superb air of disdain, or an attempt at dignity.

He got the feeling that grinning wickedly at this moment would be ill received, to say the least.

"You _really _need to let that wink go, you know," he told her gently.

More bristling: batten down the hatches, Mrs Patmore would have said.

"If a housemaid winked at you on her first day, how would you take it?" she wanted to know.

"Well," he considered, "Being the silly old fool you insist that I am, I would have probably forgotten by her third day at the latest. And for the two days in between I suppose I'd put it down to nerves. You on the other hand," he looked at her pointedly, "Seem to have taken out a vendetta against the boy ever since his eyelid returned to the proper place. He keeps trying to make it up, you know; he doesn't even hold doors open for me."

The only reply he received was a sideways glare. And, he thought, he was only just getting started.

"The only thing I can think of, "he continued in mock thoughtfulness, aware that he was probably about to have a teacup flung at him, "Is that you don't want forget about it."

That _definitely _got a response out of her.

"What on earth are you trying to imply, Charles?" she asked, eyes flashing dangerously.

"Maybe you don't want it to have just been nerves that made him wink at you."

And the colour her face turned was truly spectacular.

"Charles!" she almost exclaimed, "Are you saying I... I fancy _Branson_?"

He looked at her and blinked.

"No. The thought never so much as entered my head. I was just wondering why you appear to be so set against him. And," he had to chuckle a little then, "It appears that you are quite the reverse."

In a word, she looked utterly flabbergasted.

"Oh come on," he told her when she still didn't say anything, "It's alright. Someone else you took a fancy to was bound to come along one day. It has just transpired to be someone _extremely _unlikely."

"Apart from anything else, I can't believe you find this funny!" she snapped in reply, "It's as if you've been waiting for me to run off with an attractive young Irishman!"

He nearly roared with laughter at that.

"Elsie, you really know how to pick 'em, don't you?"

She cast a look of distaste at him.

"Apparently not," she replied in a very pointed tone, standing up, "I'm going to bed."

He was still laughing when he heard the door close behind her.

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	4. Chapter 4

**Mine and frostyblossom's collaboration on our current favourite ship:**

"**The Confrontation."**

"With all due respect, my Lady, are you sure this is a good idea?"

Sybil gave the butler a questioning look. "Why? Don't you think it is?" A brusque sigh was his response to the inquiry, prompting her to frown. "Carson, you must know that repression isn't good for the soul," she informed him gravely.

Carson was sure he didn't know anything of the sort, and instead considered repression in all its forms as essential to maintaining a happy and respectable life.

"Mrs. Hughes is..." he struggled how to frame his argument delicately, "...independently minded." To call the housekeeper flat out draconian would only earn him a double portion of her guaranteed reprisal once the whole sordid mess was over. "She'll not take very kindly to this type of coercion."

Sybil, with all the protection afforded to a daughter of the house, only laughed at Carson's valid concerns. "Is that all you're worried about?" she asked once her giggling fit was over. "Really, Carson, even I wasn't expecting Mrs. Hughes to actually _like_ what we have planned for them," she said matter-of- factly.

Her brow suddenly creased with an unsettling realization. "Now that I think it, I'm not sure Branson  
>will like it much either." Her reference to the chauffeurs feeling's only caused her resolve to waver for a moment before her eyes hardened and she pressed on with her view. "But the longer these two go without resolution the more and more miserable they'll become. These things will eat away at a person."<p>

"Be that as it may, m'lady," Carson said firmly, "I think in this situation the ends may not be worth the means." He hoped his age and station would lend some credence to his advice, but was dashed when she piped up again, more determined than before.

"Well I absolutely won't change my mind on the subject, and I simply can't do it without your help!"

What could Carson do but sigh again, this time in defeat, and acquiesce to her demands? However much he disapproved of Lady Sybil's plan, he was a butler first and a friend second, and would do as his young mistress commanded.

"As you wish, m'lady."

...

"Mrs Hughes?" he approached her as she sat with a cup of tea at the servants' hall table in the middle of the afternoon.

She was looking preoccupied, but she smiled at his approach.

"Are you busy?" he inquired.

"No," she drained her teacup, "Not really."

"Then, there is something that needs to be discussed. In my pantry, if it's not too much trouble," he was very careful with his phrasing of the request.

Though it was apparent she found his mysterious tone rather strange, she nevertheless got up and followed him.

"It's important that this matter is resolved," he informed her, "And I don't want to see hide nor hair of you until it has been."

Evidently, given the look on her face as they reached the pantry door, she had been expecting him to be the one who needed to discuss something with her, and the revelation that this was not the case seemed to confuse her further. Everything became outstandingly clear, however, when he opened the door to reveal Mr. Branson sat at the desk- looking quite as confused as she did. She cast a stricken look in his direction.

"No, Charles, you-..."

"Yes," he told her calmly, giving her a little push over the threshold and closing the door firmly behind her.

The last glimpse he caught of her face was one of the utmost mutiny.

"Do you think we ought to lock the door?" came an almost conversational tone from beside him.

He turned to see that Lady Sybil had emerged from around the corner. Obviously, after completing her part in their plan she hadn't seen fit to return upstairs. He stood back a little to contemplate the suggestion.

"It could be an idea," he conceded, "But I fear she might actually strangle him at some point, and if that were to happen I'd feel guilty about not leaving him an escape route."

Lady Sybil laughed.

"So we just leave them to get on with it, then?" she asked.

"That would seem to be the best policy, my Lady."

...

Left alone in a room with Mr Branson, Elsie wasn't quite sure whether to murder Charles for putting her there, or to murder Branson to remove the reason Charles had done so. In the end, she decided that was the least pressing decision at the moment: should she stand or should she sit opposite  
>him? After a couple of moments contemplating the chair, she decided on the latter.<p>

He had been staring at the table, avoiding eye contact, but when she sat down he looked up at her and gave her a little smile, which threw her bearings a little before she even got started. She cleared her throat and tried, desperately, to look composed and stern.

"Do you know why they've got us in here?" he asked, his tone polite, far too polite for her liking.

"No," she lied, remembering Charles' face as he had left her in here.

The chauffeur slumped in his chair, evidently at a loss for what to do with himself.

"Though, as we're here," Elsie continued, bearing in mind what had been said about not being seen again until this was all sorted out, "There is something I'd like to speak to you about."

He had arranged his face into an earnest expression of attention, which she was sorely tempted to tell him to remove at once.

"Mr. Branson," she drew herself up to her full- modest- height, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to stop raising your hat at me."

Not altogether surprisingly, he looked completely perplexed by this obscure remark. The chauffeur's eyebrows were raised- she was going to have to ask him to stop doing that too- requesting an explanation.

"When you raise your hat to me," she began, trying to do so with some fraction of dignity, "Or indeed when you hold doors open for me when I'm a good half way down the corridor, or when you _wink_at me," she added with particular emphasis, "I find it... well, I find it all rather... attractive, Mr Branson. And I think you should stop it."

Somehow, though she knew she was to blame for quite a large portion, if not all of the situation she found herself in, her tone still managed to sound accusatory. The young man was sitting, staring at the table- probably in utter mortification. Well, she thought, that could not be helped; at a time like  
>this his blushes were the least of her worries.<p>

"I only winked at you once," was all he finally had to say for himself, some of his trademark indignation returning, "You'd have thought I was pursuing you assiduously!"

She paused for a moment contemplating what he'd said. Then it hit her.

"That rather infers that you are pursuing me, at least on some level, Mr Branson," she pointed out.

Had she not been so confused, frustrated, embarrassed, appalled, she would have noted with some amusement just how priceless the look on his face was.

Not that Branson's thoughts were any less flustered. To say that he was flabbergasted would be putting it mildly. Did Mrs. Hughes really just accuse him of trying to woo her? The horridness of the situation all seemed to trace back to that cursed first day wink. He made a mental note to never again wink at a woman over forty; the consequences had proved much too dire to indulge in  
>such ocular acrobatics in future.<p>

"I can't deny that I have been trying get back in your good graces," he was finally able to admit, his face struggling to conform its features to something less unnatural. "I'm not sure I would class that as 'pursuing', exactly, but you must know, Mrs. Hughes, how much I love a challenge, and all  
>your stern looks and reproaches have given me just that!" he explained with animation and pointed gesturing.<p>

He gave a brief pause to collect his breath and thoughts. "The thought that you somehow think the less of me, well," he continued in trepidation, and with an uncharacteristic tremor in his voice, "there's no other way to say it but that it drives me quite mad! And so what can I do but try to pursue, and charm, and flirt, until I can be sure that you think of me as much as I do of you!" he finished with a rather becoming glow in his cheeks.

Mrs. Hughes felt the distinct need to fan herself, and decided that impassioned speeches would have to be added to the growing list of activities Branson was forbidden to perform in her presence. She had a few years of experience on Branson, so while the whole mess might still mystify the poor  
>lad, the ridiculous picture of their mutual fancies was starting to become crystal clear to her wiser eyes:<p>

_What started with a wink had earned a scold, which garnered a hat-raising rather bold, then turned to a blush she hid with a glare, which the chauffeur found he could not well bear, so what could he do but begin to flirt, which she did think attractive (but rather pert), to him she directed another stern look, could he really now concentrate on any old book? And on and on and on it went, how long till Bedlam they'll both be sent?  
><em>  
>Her reasoning didn't normally take on such a poetic nature, but the pure absurdity of the affair must have addled her brain far more than she suspected.<p>

"Well, Mr. Branson, it seems we've gotten ourselves into something of a vicious cycle," she concluded.

"Yes," he agreed, rather huffily, though did not supply any clever ideas about how they might possibly get out of it.

They remained very quiet for a few minutes, but, she noted, the pause was nowhere near as awkward as it surely should have been.

"So," Elsie surmised, cursing herself a little as a smile curled its way onto her face, "You do... fancy me, Mr Branson?"

For once, his natural politics let him down. Glowing scarlet, he appeared to try to answer several times but then decided against it.

"I could say the same about you, Mrs Hughes!" he pointed out, at last.

There was absolutely no way she could deny that, she had as good as admitted it.

"That I might find you attractive is nowhere near as improbable as you fancying me," she observed.

Evidently, he agreed with her on that score. He sank into rather an abashed silence.

"Mr. Branson," she eventually said, taking pity on him, "I am willing to go about my business, and never mention this again, provided that you do not try to... provoke me in the future. And you can assiduously pursue Lady Sybil to your heart's content."

That was certainly an improvement, he looked up- impressed by these terms he was being offered.

"It will provide you with a nice distraction," she told him in an attempt at being judicial, though in fact unable to keep the smile out of her voice, "Keep you out of trouble."

She was well aware that not all that long ago she'd been warning him that his pursuit of Lady Sybil would get him into nothing but trouble. The irony of that particular fact wasn't lost on her almost-paramour either. That Mrs. Hughes now considered his pursuit of Sybil as somehow less troublesome that not pursuing her at all, was only slightly less ridiculous than a young, hot-headed chauffeur fancying a severe dragon of a housekeeper (and vice versa).

"So you'll stop lecturing me, and I'll stop flirting with you," he summarized. "I suppose that should work. Of course we'll have to avoid each other whenever possible."

"Of course," she agreed, then dryly added, "Though I should think that would go without saying!"

"No more scolds?" he requested, pointing at her.

"Yes, and no more hat raising." she commanded, giving him a hearty finger wag.

Their satisfaction at the resolution was evidenced by mutual smiles. "Well Mrs. Hughes," he said, "I'll gladly accept such generous terms. It's a deal." He extended his hand out towards her, which she gingerly took, and the two of them shook to their agreement.

"The handshake is nice, but perhaps," Branson couldn't resist adding, "we should seal it with a kiss?"

Mrs. Hughes might have been able to keep her composure if he had ended it at that, but his ensuing wink all but did her in, and the look she gave him could only be described as priceless.

"I think a hand shake will do well enough!"

...

"So it's all sorted out then?"

"As far as I can tell it is."

"I'm glad," Sybil replied, a sweet smile blossoming on her lips that quickly drained from his mind any residual thoughts of the housekeeper. He leaned forward hoping to sneak a kiss, but was stopped short with a firm palm to his chest. "Now, I want to be sure, Tom, that you're not angry with me. You don't think I overstepped my bounds?"

Branson was more annoyed with her current rebuff than her earlier conniving. "How could I be angry? You only did what you thought was best," he reassured her. "And besides, m'lady, I thought you gave the orders."

She giggled at that. "I suppose I do." She jumped lightly backwards a step, escaping his grasp and just out of arms reach. "I'd be flattered that you like how strong headed I can be," she teased with a  
>smile, "except I know I'm not the only bossy woman you fancy."<p>

"I may _fancy_ Mrs. Hughes," he said, stepping forward to close the gap between them and taking her in his arms. "But I _love_you."

He leaned forward once again, and this time found nothing blocking his way.

…**...**

When Charles came across Elsie in her sitting room later that evening she was looking rather shell-shocked. He sat down beside her rather tentatively.

"Forgive me?" he asked, reaching a cautious arm out for her.

He was most relieved when she accepted it.

"Will you forgive _me_?" she asked, wrapping her own arm around his waist, "I'm sorry, Charles, my acting like a lunatic recently can't have been much fun for you."

He sighed a little.

"Nothing I'm not used to," he informed her dryly, "Though I must admit it was rather disconcerting that there was another man involved this time. Another _younger _man," he pointed out.

"Don't, I already feel terrible about it," she warned him.

"Silly fool," he mumbled, kissing her head. Then, "I'm just grateful you two didn't get as far as running away together," he joked, "I wouldn't fancy my chances if I had to track you down and fight him for your honour."

She cast an amused eye up at him.

"No," she agreed, "Nor would I."

**End. (This time).**

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